Last Endings
by redlantern
Summary: Draco's life, leading up to something. Snapshots of the Blondest Of Them All through the ages. Might become HD later on.


**Last Endings**

**AN: **Everyone's favorite Slytherin (Although Blaise Is Pretty)! Draco Malfoy's life; there's a reason why it starts young and goes older, though not purely for chronological reasons. Thank you to my beta, Eva, whose amazing story is Funny and Better than this one: Here

**DISCLAIMER: **All not mine, despite how hard I wish.

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**Part One**

Draco is six years old and he is being strangled. While Mother and Father greet the guests, they fail to notice that their only son—the light of their lives!—is choking. He tries to swallow and sees himself in the polished wood of the entrance hall's vanity table: his hair is long like a girl's, and the lace chokes his neck.

He looks like he has a _great white wattle._

Draco wants to rip the stupid lace off his throat, only he's afraid that Mother will then get angry and make him sit inside for a week, conjugating stupid verbs in stupid French. _Vouloir, pouvoir, aller, fermer._ _Fermer la bouche._

"My, how he's grown!"

He sneers at the woman who coos over him. Draco is perfectly able to hear. He wishes he were bigger so he could tell her that she's grown too, sideways. He hates it how the grown-ups always act like he isn't there when they talk about him. It makes him feel little.

There is a nagging feeling in his mind that he struggles to grab.

"What a lovely little angel, Narcissa. He looks just the image of his father," says the tall witch who is dripping diamonds. Draco feels a rush of affection towards her.

Ah, now Draco remembers. He forgot to wash behind his ears. Surreptitiously, he tucks his hair backwards, while stealing glances at his parents. Mother will take one look at him and just _know_ that her only son, her dearest love, is Dirty. Dirty Draco. Which will be perhaps worse than lace-murdering. Unpleasantly reminded, he pulls at the frothy white evil. It loosens slightly.

Draco is bored. He isn't fond of being bored, and wants to remedy the problem as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, the house elves aren't around to torment and there are far too many pointy shoes in the room for him to run around. Plus, he is dressed in tasteful-meaning-expensive clothing and if he runs Mother will _catch_ him.

"My darling, you look gorgeous," Mother says. Draco freezes. "Go and say hello to Cousin Ariadne. Here, let me do that."

Mother bends down and deftly fixes Draco's lacy wattle. Three quick tugs, a poof, and the cloud of scratchy is smooth and not strangling. Draco likes Mother.

Luckily for him and his unwashed ears, Mother is distracted by a witch with long black hair and Draco obediently wanders over towards Cousin Ariadne. He is not fond of Cousin Ariadne, not least because she is bigger than him and sneers whenever Draco talks.

"Hello, Cousin," he says stiffly.

"Go away, Blondest of Brats," she replies without looking at him.

"I would if I could, but I have to say hello to you," Draco tells her. "I don't like you very much."

"You said hello, now stop bothering me."

"Oh. Right," Draco says. He _has_ completed his task hasn't he? Gratefully he turns to go away but before he can make his escape, something furry and sleek with sharp teeth and crazed eyes slams into his chest. He can't help it; Draco shrieks.

Everyone within hearing range turns to stare at him, meaning every single witch and wizard in the room. Draco tries to grab at the twisting creature, a ferret, a weasel, something with grey fur and pointy teeth that prick into his skin like pinpoints. It spits furiously, clawing at the _lace_, at the spray of white fabric at his throat, so Draco, in an act of desperation, grabs his lace and tears it off. He throws it as hard as he can against the floor and the little animal, entangled, follows.

There are hot tears of shame and pain welling in his eyes and making the room quaver. Blood wells between his fingers and everyone is looking at him. He thinks that if they look any harder they'll make holes in him.

"Avada kedavra," Father says calmly. The weasel ferret screams once and is quiet.

There is only silence in the room. Nobody dares to look at Father or Mother, who has come to kneel beside Draco. She smoothes his hair back, heals his torn fingers, and kisses him on the forehead.

"Shall we continue to the dining room," Father tells everyone. The guests murmur, breathe. Robes and dresses swish.

"Darling," Mother says. "Go upstairs and change. Zilly will take your shirt." She stands and leaves, letting Draco brush away the stupid tears.

He follows the house-elf upstairs to his room, where he is re-dressed and decorated. Zilly takes his shirt and departs. He doesn't want to go downstairs, so he throws himself onto his bed. Draco's fingers are whole once more but they still seem to throb, and he shivers. He glances around; there is no one but him in the room.

Draco puts his fingers in his mouth and cries.

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